


(and i) know it well

by tatou



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, tags will be updated as this progresses, there will be some non con yes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 15:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of captain pan prompts from my tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. running you with red

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from tumblr user [tardisandwings](http://tardisandwings.tumblr.com): "Can I watch?"
> 
> Tumblr link [ here.](http://killianjoenss.tumblr.com/post/69009858927/yay-for-prompts-idk-if-your-taking-smutty-prompts)

Neverland is disgusting, Hook thinks to himself as he pulls his coat off sleeve by sleeve, careful not to tread his hook over the aging leather, then his blouse. Disgusting, humid, dank, smelly, full of bugs.  _Hot._ Far, far too hot. His skin feels like it could blister off.

 

And it’s not just Neverland, but it’s him as well. He has never perspired so much as he has within a single minute spent out on the beach. The water smells too thickly of salt and greens and it clings to him even now; a persistent many grains of sand stick to his fingers and boots and the back of his neck. He hangs up his coat and shirt on a stub of a low hanging branch and examines the crusts of dirt underneath his fingernails with an air of disgust, ears cocked to catch any errant footstep nearby.

 

It’s not for him to question why he isn’t aboard the Jolly Roger right this moment. Despite the alluring familiarity of its creaking hull and swaying floors, he had laid in his bed and felt the walls of his quarters slowly slide out of place, inching closer and scattering his furniture, crushing chairs and books. He had felt his lungs catch no air and had burst from the ship like a mad fool, eager to be anywhere but there.

 

He had felt the call of the wild, open Neverland, and he had chosen it over the safety of his own ship. He should be worried, frightened, and instead he is here stripping bare like there aren’t many thousands of dangers all around him, hidden.

 

Where he stands now is a small basin surrounded by trees and shrubbery taller than himself, hidden away underneath a tall crop of rock walls looking long untouched. It is an area he has never seen before in his many excursions of the island; he should be worried that the small sanctuary has opened itself to him without any sign of outward danger, but in the wake of his muddy feet and grimy hands all Hook can think of is that crystalline water and the shade offered by the topmost crop of rocks. Any Lost Boy could be lurking about, arrow or dagger poised to end his life before he can so much as take a breath, but Hook feels no fear in this moment, not when the trickle and burble of water calms his nerves like a soothing hand.

 

Looking about quickly, heart thundering in his chest, Hook bends to remove his pants and leaves them with the rest of his clothing before dropping into the water like a stone. The water sluices through his fingers like a caress, clinging his smallclothes to his body and raising shivers up his spine with its genteel warmth. He swims and submerges himself completely, touching down on the sandy bottom and threading his hand through tall weeds, untangling his ankles from their caresses. Maybe it’s just the calmness of the moment that makes him feel like the dirt is washed from his body instantly, all tension in his muscles gone lax.

 

He resurfaces to breathe and finds he has swam deep into the basin’s underlying cave, and realizes he is not alone, and realizes that this, like near everything else on Neverland, was Pan’s doing.

 

“I thought you might like a bath.” Peter says. He lounges in the cool shadows, holding Hook’s clothing in his lap. He looks like he has been sitting there on that large slab of stone for hours, reclined against the cave’s wall like he has has nowhere else to be. “You looked ready to melt.”

 

Hook draws back into the water, the prickle of surprise in his chest dying down to blend with the water’s trickling whispers. “I was.” He says, a little stiffly. He is never entirely at ease around Peter, but he is never entirely afraid, either. “And I suppose you thought you’d have a nice look as I undressed?”

 

Peter’s smile is not in the least guilty. “I drew you here,” He says, gesturing to the water. “It’s only fair.”

 

“It’s only voyeurism.” Hook retorts, to which Peter laughs, and sets down the clothing to move forward on quick feet and crouch at the water’s edge. His eyes dance with a challenge.

 

“It’s only voyeurism if the activities being spied are sexual.” He slips a foot forward to ripple the water near Hook’s chest; his boot disappears, and suddenly his body is bare of clothing, his toes stroking lazily at Killian’s chest. He smiles at Hook’s stuttering breaths. “How lucky for you that I’m here, Captain.”

 

He slides into the water and propels himself forward to clasp his thin arms around Hook’s neck, the splash of movement disturbing the calm water, and laughs when Hook pushes back to press him against the sandy bank, hesitance forgotten. The teeth that dig into his neck are sharp and clever, drawing blood that trickles into the water to stain its clarity with faint, murky traces of red. The hurt of it only furthers his arousal; Peter aids the process of preparation and even then it is not fast enough. When he buries himself inside he releases a low hiss of breath, and Peter writhes against him in satisfaction, dragging trails that burn over his back with his demonic little nails.

 

“Give me more.” He demands, his eyes cutting and greedy.

 

Hook obeys.

 

He discovers that when he moves fast enough, Peter tosses his head back against the wet ground and cries out sharp angry sounds that echo loudly in the cave’s dark. Hook makes a desperate attempt at pulling out when he is close but Peter’s legs wrap tighter around him, pale knees protruding from the water like long bones, his lips letting loose a threat of red should the pirate attempt such a thing again. He bucks upwards, pulling Hook deeper until he is gnashing his teeth with the fury of his release, and he spends himself inside the boy, and the water around them turns darker still when Pan joins him.

 

“You heeded my call.” Peter murmurs afterwards, as he watches Hook swim back to the basin’s opening and dress. “You listen for me.”

 

Hook does not pause the buttoning of his shirt, though his fingers spasm slightly in recognition. “I don’t.” He says, but when he looks up Peter is gone.

 


	2. a mind changed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You're nothing but a pirate,_ Hook reminds himself, and lifts his boot to grind his heel over the glowing organ.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from tumblr user [we-remain-together](http://we-remain-together.tumblr.com): Anything involving someone from team!storybrooke finding out that Hook/Pan have a history and confronting Hook about it (maybe they see/overhear something, or maybe Tink mentions it) And, also, anything with jealous!pan. I just really want to see him annoyed by the attention Hook's paying to Emma <3 And if you'd be so kind, no rumple's dad!pan, please *aggressively hates that story line*
> 
> Tumblr link [here.](http://killianjoenss.tumblr.com/post/70017592543/sending-you-captian-pan-prompts-for-later-anything)

In retrospect the whole thing is most assuredly Killian's own fault, but Peter is the one, as always, who saw the potential for destruction and gave it a hearty push, sending all to chaos and damnation.

 

Or is that his doubt eating at him again? Was this really all _his_ own fault? Could he have attacked Pan when the boy had appeared to him, or tuned out his words and advances?

 

Hook would like to think so, but he knows the answer as surely as he knows that his every move on this blasted island is tracked.

 

The cliff is tall enough to make the ascension a struggle, but it isn't so tall as to not carry over noise. He'd itched to snap at Peter, to force a hand over that shining mouth and silence him, but his fear had kept him remarkably still. In that moment with the two of them standing close, he forget entirely of Charming waiting for the rope, his lungs suddenly refusing to work in any manner at all.

 

“Come work for me again,” Peter had ordered, circling him, his body merging into the mist and leaving behind a farce of a shadow before he reappeared again, cutting through the cloudy air. “Like the old days.”

 

“I don't miss the old days,” Hook had answered, trying to hide the tinge of a rasp in his voice.

 

It was true, he reminded himself, perhaps choosing to forget that Pan could hear him there, too. He missed no part of those long grueling years.

 

The blow to his cheek stunned him. He staggered, but there came another, a fist that time, and Peter sent him sprawling onto his back in the damp soil.

 

“You can and you will.” He kicked Hook's leg, the action dripping with disdain. His resentment at Killian shone through his eyes like red glowing coals; he obviously had not yet forgiven Killian for escaping him the first chance he got, nor for successfully keeping out of his reach in all that time. Now there is a new fury there: he does not want his toy played by others. “For me. Get up.”

 

Hook spat onto the ground, tasting blood. It tasted vile, reminiscent of the water found in the deepest of Neverland’s lakes. Peter would kick him again for stalling, he was sure, but no third blow came. “I'm not going back to that.”

 

“We're not going back to anything.”

 

Peter crouched deftly, like the fall of a shadow; he dropped a kiss to Hook's jaw and it felt like it burned into his skin. In his eyes sparked fires long ablaze, newly stoked. “You enjoyed doing my dirty work before. Why deny yourself the fun, Killian?”

 

Shudders ran rampant down his spine; his name on that tongue was, and forever will be, the unholiest sound known to the Captain's ears. His lips pulled downwards but he remained still, feeling warm breaths over his skin. “I'd rather not partake in your idea of it.”

 

The boy smiled. “This will be something entirely new. You know me- I like action. Games. Things to break.

 

And you are one of those _best_ breakable things.”

 

“Will you ever just kill me and be done with this madness?” Killian forced out, teeth clenched, already awaiting punishment for his outburst.

 

But Peter only showed teeth and laughed, tilting his head in that odd manner that made him seem a whole other species, a terror intrigued by its host.

 

He spoke quietly at first, but as his excitement grew his words rang clear and sharp, and the words carried on Neverland's balmiest breeze. He stood watching as the pirate struggled along the ground, pulling himself back onto his feet, before approaching once more.

 

He disappeared, and Hook went tense, eyes darting round the enclosing area for any sign of the boy before there was a silent hiss behind his back and a voice again in his ear.

 

“I want to see you kill him before the poison.” Peter asserted, and then his voice grew vehement, cutting straight through the fog and haze around them, filling Hook with dread. “I want to see your hook _inside_ his body.”

 

And the words had carried.

 

Across the peak's edge, and straight down.

 

“What if I don't take your offer?” Hook asked, thoughtless words to distract from the momentary panic that seized his body.

 

“Remember the last time,” Peter murmured into Hook's ear, his breaths wavering with the strength of his words, his eyes narrowed, “-you didn't listen to me?”

 

Liam, Hook thought to himself, pain twisting dully at his throat.

 

Peter let out a low, derisive sound, pushing a careless hand down the inside length of Hook's coat before grabbing at his flask and yanking it away from his hip, pushing the thing into the Captain's chest with such a look of disgust and utter wanting on his face that immediately he felt the stirrings of arousal within himself at the flood of memories that came rushing forward.

 

“Have a drink.” He mocked as Hook lowered his head and took the flask, willing the jungle's shadows to overcome his face and hide his ire. “You know it always helps you think.”

 

Hook turned his head; he managed to get one last glimpse of Peter's knowing, triumphant smirk before there were the sounds of movement and an exhausted grunt to his left and Hook turned, all tension between he and the demon-boy lost at once.

 

Peter had vanished a fraction of a second before Charming had successfully, _foolishly_ climbed his way to the top of the cliff, and Hook knew at once they had been overheard.

 

“Bloody hell, I told you to wait!” He snapped, looking around behind him one last time for Peter though he knew him to be gone, perhaps watching from the surrounding darkness. There was no hiding his breathlessness, but perhaps Charming's own labored gasps masked the sounds. Peter's abrupt vanishing acts never ceased to unsettle him, nor that ever shrinking distance between them.

 

Charming only moved on forward until he was staring Hook down, his expression speaking volumes of his distrust.

 

“Were you talking to someone?”

 

Caught unprepared, Hook sputtered out a pathetic lie, and Charming had only stared down at his hand and the flask, something like fear flickering just at the corners of his eyes and in the lines of his fists. Peter would have laughed aloud if he'd been in the vicinity.

 

Presently, the Captain shakes himself from the confines of his backwards thoughts. They continue their path towards the Peak. Hook stays silent and purposeful, ducking branches and hanging leaves; Charming makes no attempt at conversation, too busy watching him intently, waiting- and perhaps that's what pushes Hook to the action. The prince only scoffs and glares and sneers, spits his title like it's venom-doused.

 

“You're only a _pirate_.” He has said to Hook, again and again. _Pirate_. Dregs of filth washed up on civillian shores to contaminate and wreck. All this continued doubt and scorn when Killian has done nothing but attempt to help, risking his own life and freedom to return to this blasted land and seek out a boy he does not know or care for.

 

“You brought me here to die!” Charming accuses, and Hook closes his eyes in a last attempt to disguise his annoyance. He has had enough of this. Why do they only turn up their dogged efforts to find fault in his motives when he so much as opens his mouth?

 

“I did.” He confirms.

 

He doesn't fight invalids, he'd said before. Now it doesn't matter a damned bit.

 

Of course in a better situation the fight would have been even and difficult and fair, but he has no patience for that now. Charming evades the first blow, ducking impressively in spite of his lack of breath and posioned body; he had obviously been expecting the attack. He shouts something, a plea or a curse, and attempts to fight back, but his energy is sapped fast and he is easily overcome. Hook pushes Charming against the wall of rock and ivy, digs shiny metal deep into his chest, raking the now-bloodstained appendage down to split flesh. He watches with disgruntled satisfaction as Charming chokes on his breath, eyes wide, and falls to his knees with a cry of anguish when the pirate yanks his hook out and wipes the blood on his clothing.

 

“You bloody fools have worn me out.” Hook says, watching as Charming grasps weakly for his own sword. He kicks the man's hand away and then the weapon, tossing it far out of reach.

 

He had thought Peter would be watching, but he hadn't expected the youth to make an appearance.

 

Peter arrives in a gust of warped air at his back and a mouth at his ear. He wraps those frighteningly strong arms around Hook's shoulders, brushing the broad palms of his hands over the lapels of his leather coat, pushing inside his shirt to press over the rapid beat of his heart.

 

“Did you hate him?” He asks slyly, watching with interest as Charming grips at his emptied chest. The red organ is impaled still on Hooks' metal appendage; he slides the thing off with a shake of his arm and it falls to the ground, rolling conveniently near his boot. “Have you grown tired of his continued insults and his reluctance to accept you?”

 

Hook makes to speak, but his eyes are glued to the dying man before him, who stares back in bloody, gurgling horror.

 

“Hook, please.” He begs. “My family- _Henry-”_

 

 _You're nothing but a pirate_ , Hook reminds himself, and lifts his boot to grind his heel over the glowing organ. Charming's scream echoes around them.

 

“You realize what happens now, of course.” Peter continues, licking the shell of Hook's ear in his excitement, putting on theatrics for their audience's last breaths. “ _She_ dies next. It'll be a blessing for her; she's only just regained her father, it fits that she should die with him. And her mother, next.”

 

Charming's sobs irritate the Captain's ears, but he makes no move to silence them. Only stands and watches, pushing his boot further down until there is nothing but pathetic crumbling dust and a limp body nearby.

 

He feels no remorse for the blood on his limbs. He was never going to fit in with them anyway, what point would there have been in staying?

 

“You'll kill them all for me, won't you Killian.” Peter purrs.

 

“It's not my choice anymore.” Hook points out dully. Because now he has taken up Peter's offer, and now he will be held to it. He will be ordered about and he will comply.

 

He keeps his eyes on the body at his feet, trying to block out every whisper in his ear, but the boy is always a step ahead. Peter flashes to Hook's front to distract the view, his mouth twisted up in pleasure as he carefully undoes the first set of buttons on the embellished waistcoat the pirate Captain wears, splaying his fingers into the dark hair below.

 

Peter smiles. _The game is on_ , his lips tell Hook without moving. _Let's begin._

 

“Welcome back, Killian.” He says.

 


	3. noise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: "Peter's first time with hook, peter asked for it, (he went to hooks ship) but when hook was about to do him, peter got a bit scared cuz it was his first time, but he didnt wanna show it, and did it anyway."
> 
> Tumblr link [here.](http://killianjoenss.tumblr.com/post/69217474733/captain-pan-prompt-3-peters-first-time-with-hook)

Peter came upon him the way he always did, like a shadow. It was always a quick rush of sudden darkness over his figure, of knowing there was no longer any unoccupied space nearby, and things had fallen to pieces in mere seconds, pathetic.

 

Hook thought nothing of it at first. It had been their usual song and dance, but somewhere underlying that he sensed a want lying in wait, and when Peter had made the first move, he had had no chance but to reciprocate, unable to continue suffocating that own spark within him.

 

It happened for the first time in his ship’s quarters, somewhere Peter tended to show up, but had never stayed long.

 

He had proposed a new game and they had torn and bit at each other like wolves with the usual ferocity, but when things pressed further and skins were bared and he had positioned himself to push in, Hook had heard the small, barely perceptible hitch of breath in Peter’s throat and felt the subtle, nearly-not-there tremble of his legs. 

 

He’d never heard such a thing coming from those lips before- any sounds of shock only ever came from himself, because while Peter always liked to get the jump on Hook, it was never the other way around. It was always Hook twitching in surprise at a sudden voice or touch, always biting back a gasp when that familiar figure appeared too close for comfort.

 

He stopped, slick dripping messily from his hand as he looked closer in the low light, observing Peter’s half-hidden face with undisguised scrutiny. Noticing this, Peter rocked against him, spitting cutting words that insisted he go on, and Hook had seen something of an unknown fear within him. He had seen vestiges of it before, but never so closely; it left him in a short burst of awe.  

 

Again he was reminded that Peter was above all still a boy playing at grownups, and something had eaten away at his chest, uncomfortable with the thought.

 

Peter ignored Hook’s sharp intake of breath, pushing himself down lower on the sheets to meet the pirate’s body, grabbing at what remained of his vestments and dragging him closer, his words clear and unspoken. It was obvious he was angry with himself for showing weakness and angrier still at Hook for having seen it, however accidentally. It was this that brought Killian back from his hesitance- the fire in Peter's eyes aged him, cast flickering shadows over his cheeks that hollowed out their roundness and made him look fearsome, a boy no longer and a demon forever more. Hook attempted a try at comforting him, stroking his good hand up the boy’s ribcage and a teasing pass over his nipple, but Peter pushed his hand away. 

 

“ _Do_  it.” He ordered impatiently, in no mood for careful touches.

 

When Hook pushed in at last, Peter cried out, having failed to bite back the sound in its entirety, but acting fast to muffle the rest into the tender skin of Hook’s neck. The pirate himself said nothing: he knew making any mention of the occurrence would end badly for him.

 


	4. preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, Captain,” Peter says, “You’ve caught my attention.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: "Have you seen the gifset made by colinodonorgasm? The one titled 'Captain Killian “Hook” Jones + tickles my pickle'? If you have, would you please write a drabble (or whatever you'd like) about what Killian is wearing in the middle, and lower right corner of the gifset? It's on his lower back. For some reason, I really want to see Peter yank the string holding it together, or tighten it. Maybe just because it's really annoying, or fun to fiddle with. His reasoning is up to you."
> 
> Tumblr link [here.](http://killianjoenss.tumblr.com/post/71447880033/have-you-seen-the-gifset-made-by-colinodonorgasm-the)

The draw of Peter’s hands along his spine makes him shiver. The chin that nestles into the junction of his shoulder is sharp and small, the jaw rigid. Hook doesn’t move as thin fingers pull his laces together, threading them through the tiny eyelets on the back of his vestements.

 

There is a touch of wet lips to his ear, a cheek brushing against his own. Hook holds his breath, eyes trained on the wall opposite him. Peter in his quarters is not a first, but it is like a solid breaching of well-drawn lines. He is too close, too  _close_.

 

“Hold very still.” Peter murmurs.

 

It occurs to Killian that there could very well be a dagger poised at Peter’s hip or hand, waiting for the opportune moment to bring it forth and strike through to his spine. This could fast be the end of him.

 

He appeared in Killian’s room on a whim, it appeared. Hook had only just gotten out of bed, and it was lucky that he had slept in light sleeping garments or he would have been more exposed to the boy than he ever would have liked. The boy-demon had materialized without warning, perched atop Killian’s desk like he owned the very space it sat on and stared wordlessly.

 

The Captain had gone still at the sight of him, alarm raising the hairs on his arms and neck. He expected an attack, words meant to sting, but when nothing came and Peter had done nothing but stare, his face dark and blank, he turned away to pull on his clothing. Only then had there come contact; Peter ghosted to his back and placed hands on Killian’s hips, murmuring a quiet offer of help.

 

Vulnerable, without weapon or means of defense (he had experienced that supernatural strength before- there was no beating Peter with fists and rage unless the boy himself allowed it), Killian dared not refuse. He nodded once, a jerked movement of his head.

 

“Is this how it ends?” He asks, unsurprised to find that he can hardly raise his voice. “Have you come to kill me at last?”

 

“Don’t be a fool.”

 

The Captain cannot see it from where he stands but the boy’s face is intent, focused on his goal. His fingers work diligently, never faltering as they steadily wind laces, tugging perhaps a little too tight. Peter does up the last of his laces patiently, knots them snugly against the base of Killian’s spine. He has dressed Killian in a waistcoat of old silk, red. “I came to prepare you.”

 

Killian frowns, but keeps his gaze ahead of him. He does not fear those eyes but he dreads another touch. Perhaps it is because he has just woken that he cannot fathom the thought of fighting; his instincts, usually so alert around Pan, feel subdued, put away for the moment. He can only stand there lazily and allow himself to be clothed and spoken to. Is this Pan’s doing?

 

“For what?”

 

“ _Must_  there be an occasion?” Peter asks, sounding annoyed. He nestles his chin in the crook of Killian’s neck, lowering his hands to the backs of his thighs. There he grabs the leather waiting and drags it arduously up, dutifully fitting the material over Killian’s hips and sliding the long belt into the waiting notches.

 

“I can do it myself,” Killian says, but Peter ignores him. He settles the heavy, ornate buckle just below the hem of his waistcoat, warm fingers lingering in place over Killian’s now-clothed groin.

 

Lips drag over his ear, rustling the hairs at his cheek. Killian is all too aware of his manual breathing.

 

“Is it a sin to want to see my captain dressed in his best?”

 

Peter breathes in deep, and the rustle of his own tunic combined with the muted squeaks of leather ring in his ears as hands drag upwards over his carved ivory buttons and worn embroidery. Killian’s arms hang uselessly at his sides. “You seem to have no qualms against dressing yourself provocatively.”

 

“To better entice the women, lad.” Killian breathes, allowing himself a glance down at his outfit. “You think this my best?”

 

Peter’s words hiss out against his earlobe and he flinches, unprepared. “It’s my favorite.”

 

Killian’s brow dips, unimpressed. “So you’ve trussed me up like your favorite dolly.”

 

He’s surprised at the pleasantry of Peter’s tone and the hand that pushes further up to rest just at the base of his throat.

 

He flicks his fingers, summoning a tall mirror before them. In it, Killian sees himself neatly dressed and a serpentine gaze admiring him, wicked hands pressed to his chest and tangling in the silvery cords of his necklaces.

 

The scene is terrifyingly sensual; as if sensing that thought, Peter drags a greedy hand through Killian’s hair, mussing it, pressing his nose to the nape of the captain’s neck and breathing soundlessly against him and Killian can only stare at the reflective glass as he is made to look rumpled and had, his throat and groin heating curiously.

 

“But you must admit you like it, Captain, and so now you must consider me your enabler.” In the mirror, Peter cracks his eyes open, his gaze heated and unrelenting. “You and your longcoats and leather trousers and ornate buttons…you seek specific gazes. You said it yourself; you aim to enthrall.”

 

Peter’s hands fly down to his hips again, and Killian is grasped hard, spun round to face Peter, their bodies flush. Sharp little teeth gleam at Killian, so like a shark’s eager jaw it startles him.

 

“Well, Captain,” Peter says, “You’ve caught my attention.”

 

His hands trip past Killian’s waist, gathering fingers at his back to trap him in the small circle of his arms. Peter is not much shorter than Killian, but he seems larger than Killian has ever seen him, darker and far more deadly with his current lack of threats.

 

“Whatever will you do with it?” The demon-boy asks, and vanishes. The mirror remains; when Killian stumbles back and turns to look at it, he attempts to flatten and comb his hair with his fingers, hating that he still feels Peter’s fingers on his scalp.

 

No matter how much he tries, his hair stays as unkempt as Peter left it. When he tries undoing his laces, they remain tight as a bow. Even slashes from his hook will not let them loose; he tries his buckle and finds himself ridiculously trapped, and it is not until later when Neverland has gone dark and he has trudged back into his quarters that he learns there is a penalty for attempting to undo what Pan has done.

 


	5. change of hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you so afraid of loss you'll deny yourself what I am to you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from tumblr user [tardisandwings:](http://tardisandwings.tumblr.com)Peter becomes Killian's One True Love after Milah was killed.
> 
> Tumblr link [here.](http://killianjoenss.tumblr.com/post/74661601081/i-couldnt-resist-bc-i-love-your-writing-peter)

When the realization finally comes to Killian, they stand opposite each other in the boy’s camp, faces alight with the fire’s dance. The lighting only serves to make Peter look more demonic than Killian has ever seen him; his eyes, locked distrustfully on Hook’s, resemble glowing coals. It comes to him in the midst of their discussing another task for the pirate to take on, another blot of life to be wiped from their map. He is ordered and he responds with swift flashes of steel, as the job goes. 

 

But Peter’s mouth moves and Killian hears nothing but the blood rushing through his head, feels the color drain from his face.

 

_Impossible,_  he thinks. _That can’t be right._

"So you’ve figured it out." Peter says, observing him calmly. His tone betrays no emotion; he speaks lowly but Hook hears him clearly over the crackle of burning branches and the whistles of far away birds. All talk of business is gone now, given way to something far greater in importance. "I thought you quicker than that."

 

Reeling, Killian searches for words and finds himself drawing away when Peter circles around the fire to meet him. “Don’t.” He warns, thinking of Milah, and the ocean blue, and the floorboards in his quarters that squeak the loudest when he steps over them. His thoughts race, making no discernible sense, because Peter  _can_ _'t_ be, not this- this  _creature._  “Don’t touch me.”

 

"Are you so afraid of fate?" Peter mocks, hair ablaze and turned golden from his proximity to the flames. "My brave and deadly captain afraid of  _love.”_

 

"I’m not yours." Killian stammers, fingers curling to form fists. "This is wrong. You-" He points accusingly at the demon before him, rings glittering,  _"You_  did this. You’ve done something to make it like this. Undo it  _now.”_

Peter goes on as if Hook hadn’t spoken at all. “First you lost your beloved brother. Then  _Milah._ ”

 

(He says the name with such scorn and distaste it sets Killian’s nerves to crackling.)

 

"Then Bae. What makes you think you’ll lose me, Killian? Are you so afraid of loss you’ll deny yourself what I am to you?"

 

Killian shakes his head, stepping further back, away from the warmth of the fire and the red gaze and into the tall shelves of branches and thick leaves. “You’re nothing to me.” He doesn’t turn away, not even when there’s a good distance between them and he feels cool in the shade of trees and tall cliffs, lightheaded. “Undo what you did.” 

 

"Has it occurred to you that you might be the one to blame, Captain?" Peter calls after him, but by then Killian has broken into a run, cursing himself and the island and the boy he has left behind and the understanding that dawns in his chest like a slow yawn.

 


	6. denied resignation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fists sting but magic burns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from tumblr user [americaengland](http://americaengland.tumblr.com): Captain Pan injuries.
> 
> Tumblr link [here](http://killianjoenss.tumblr.com/post/74652448869/captain-pan-injuries-yeah). Based off my headcanon that Hook's ever present coat was a gift and sign of alliance/employment from Peter (explained [here.](http://killianjoenss.tumblr.com/post/74641659409/top-10-captain-hook-headcanons-please))

The blood that doesn’t get into Hook’s eye slides down his nose and past his throat, already crusting on his jaw. He blinks hard to see, one two three four blinks and his vision is still tinted red but he’ll have to make do for now. Shrugging out of his coat, he lumps it into a misshapen ball and throws it at his feet, watches the dirt scatter before his gaze flies back to his employer, glittering with hate. 

 

"I’m done." He calls out. "Find someone else."

 

"You’re not done." 

 

Perched atop a fallen log, Peter observes his hand, rubbing a thumb over his bloodied knuckles and smearing the red between his fingers. The rage he’d displayed only seconds ago seems to have been quelled for now, but even so the sight makes Hook tense with anticipation. Peter is erratic, unpredictable, a snake waiting in the grass. They have been at this for what feels like years now and still he is as confusing as ever, his only predictable behavior being that of keeping Hook at his side. “You’re not even close.”

 

"Find someone else." Hook repeats firmly, ignoring the funny click his jaw makes when he speaks. If it’s causing any pain, he can’t feel it anymore. He doesn’t know if he should be grateful or afraid that Peter hasn’t used his magic for the attack: fists sting but magic  _burns._  

 

Peter’s eyes cut to Hook, his rising temper gone in a flash. He stands and throws Hook’s dagger, stolen during the fight, to the trees, moving forward in a flash of blurred air to shove the unprepared pirate into the dirt. 

 

"Continue this path and I’ll string you up by the neck." He warns, terrifically sedate. The time for games is done; the prince will have what he wants and if refusal means death then so be it. He will not tolerate this insubordination. "Retrieve your coat and I’ll let you breathe yet."

 

Hook’s skull rings from the impact to the ground. He grimaces and uses his good hand to shove at Peter’s boot, which has dug itself into his throat. The pointed toe presses into his windpipe, threatening to crush, and for all his strength and experience in battle Hook knows he cannot win to this brat of a boy who will not take no for answer. 

 

Weighing his options gets him nowhere, and he is running out of breath. His first attempt at choking out an answer is stopped by Peter’s laughter, ever the cruel child amused at another’s pain. 

 

 _Ignore it,_ Hook reminds himself when the dread strikes in him again,  _remember your_ _crocodile. Finish him first and Peter can kill you as he likes after._

 

Above him, Peter taps his boot lightly against the pirate’s chin. “Is that a yes, Captain?” He asks, and Hook feels the hatred inside him storm against his ribs like a ship in a bottle’s clutch. He scratches out a hasty “Yes,” and is released; Hook doubles over to grab his throat and wheeze for breath, spits blood into the grass. 

 

"Your coat." Peter reminds him, stepping away patiently. There is no room on his face for anger at the moment, not when there is a triumphant smirk so large as that quirking his lips. Hook keeps his face stony, moves to reach for the pile of leather crumpled nearby, and then Peter is there to help him, taking the coat from his hands and pulling its sleeves over his arms. 

 

"I know why you agreed." He says amicably, anger forgotten in his victory. He steels his hands against Hook’s back and pushes him upright, fussing dirt from his shoulders, "But that’s alright. I can sway you to me, Captain. You’ll see."

 

Hook shakes his head dizzily, tries shrugging Peter’s hands off him. “You won’t.” He mumbles adamantly, blinking more blood from his eye. “You  _won’t.”_

Peter only laughs.

 


	7. plain sun mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His son, Killian thinks to himself. People think this is his son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous request: "just want to help fuel your captain pan ideas, although i believe you may of thought of this one already, but an AU where Hook is the Guardian of a very late teen Peter Pan, but they got those feels going on for one another. Totally unrelated by blood"
> 
> Tumblr link [here.](http://killianjoenss.tumblr.com/post/78362429595/hello-just-want-to-help-fuel-your-captain-pan-ideas)

They have a day left in July and Killian thinks it wouldn't be so bad, next time, to move somewhere where there's always heat.

 

He's driving Peter home from the park. It's not a long ride- the kid's walked the length before and he has a bus card, but Killian doesn't like leaving him on his own. Peter never seems to mind getting picked up; he sits in the passenger's seat quietly, shoes and socks slipped off, legs tucked up with him on his seat.

 

_When he spotted Killian approaching the park's gate he unfurled from his sprawl in the grass and strutted to him like only Peter can, took him by the hand and led him into the field of taller greens._

 

_'I missed you.' He said, on his knees._

 

“ _Not here.” Killian replied urgently. “Get up.”_

 

_Peter nuzzled him (or maybe he was shaking his head), breath hot, hair shining in the summer sun, beautiful.“Just a taste.”_

 

His son, Killian thinks to himself. People think this is his son.

 

“You're getting too old to be doing things like this.” Killian reminds him.

 

Peter's face twitches distastefully, as it always does when his guardian mentions age and propriety. It's easy to hear the _I didn't hear you complaining,_ even if he doesn't say it.

 

So Killian goes on warning. “Remember what we've talked about.”

 

Peter used to listen to him. Now he just smiles and nods and doesn't break eye contact as he disobeys. They pass under a bridge and the midday sun races to catch up with them through the cracks in between the structure.

 

“You don't want them to come poking around and taking you away, do you?”

 

“They won't.”

 

Peter stares past the dashboard as the tunnel opens to blue sky again, and skyscrapers, traffic. They lived in a small town before everything went to hell; it's been four years since they moved here and Killian's still adjusting to the change. Peter didn't ever seem to notice a difference.

 

He tucks his cheek into his knees and watches Killian drive. “No one suspects anything.”

 

“You don't know that.”

 

Peter's laugh is quiet. Did he always sound that sinister? “I do.”

 

Killian sees him reach out in his peripheral vision- he tenses automatically and his heart almost stops when his hands jerk, causing the vehicle to swerve. He rights it immediately and they get a few honks, but there's no damage done. He risks a glance out of the corner of his eye again and Peter's face is dark, and amused.

 

He looks too old.

 

He looks too young.

 

The boy reaches again and this time Killian doesn't overreact when the hand settles over his own where it grips the wheel, and gives him a reassuring squeeze.

 

His hand is on fire.

 

“You don't need to worry, Killian. I'm old enough, I can help now. You don't have to do this on your own.”

 

“You're not.” Killian sounds strangled even to his own ears. He shouldn't be driving right now, he should push Peter back into his seat and pull over somewhere he can breathe and think. “You're still a _child_ , you're not even of age-”

 

“I didn't say I was.”

 

Peter pulls back now and gives him space, but the green eyes stay locked on him, just as they always do. Killian doesn't think he's spent a single second of his life with Peter unmonitored.

 

“I said I was old _enough_.” He reiterates, and Killian forces himself not to flinch, both at the sharpness of his tone and the thoughts that rip into his mind.

 

_Old enough to crawl naked into Killian's bed._

 

_Old enough to give him those scathing sensuous looks and dip his head between Killian's thighs._

 

_Old enough to give his guardian long lasting reminders of how well he can use that mouth._

 

“I heard you.” Killian breathes.

 

“Then have faith in me.”

 

They pass a main street bedecked in multicolor banners announcing music festivals. They pass people going about their day and they pass the lake glittering blue just to their left. They're almost home.

 

Killian eases up on the gas pedal. At the red light, he allows himself to turn and look at Peter. He remembers four years ago: catastrophe and screams. Two years ago: waking to an armful of Peter. Five nights ago: pressing deceptively soft wrists into his bedspread and legs around his waist.

 

Thirty minutes ago, liplocked in the grass, young and divine.

 

“I do.” He says.

 

Peter smiles. "Good."

 


	8. reaching through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by [titians:](http://titians.tumblr.com) 'peter/killian: two sides of a confession box'.

"I can feel your breath through the pattern," The penitent whispers.

 

It is a breathy remark, a murmured observation. There is nothing of it that should have jolted Killian so, but it does anyhow.

 

Killian pauses in the midst of prayer, words forgotten. He isn’t sitting close enough for the words to be true, he thinks, observing the confessional’s dark window. Still, he must be respectful: Killian moves away slightly and tries to object when thin fingers appear in the window’s patterned slots, curling over the woodwork. The manner in which they move is sinister, and sets his heart at curious unease.

 

The boy’s voice is deep, scratchy with accent. “Come back.”  

 

Pressed against the window like he is, glimpses of his features show through the window. Eyes that are green or gray, ashen highlights in tawny hair. There’s a hint of moonlight behind him but it only makes the boy darker and Killian more unsettled.

 

"Seat yourself properly, please." He manages, mouth dry. He swallows to wet his sandpaper tongue and the sound seems to reach the penitent's ears. He is sure he sees a smile in the dark somewhere, where his face should be.

 

"Are you afraid of me, Father?"

 

Killian breathes slow and presses the flat of his hand atop the Bible sat beside him on the bench. “I am not.”

 

It’s too dark to see. It’s night, the church is dimly lit and unoccupied save for them two. The fingers on the window curl tight and unfurl, like they’re reaching for him. 

 

"Then why did you pull away from me?"

 

"Child," Killian insists, "May I remind you that we are in the house of God. I ask that you remember proper conduct and finish what you came for."

 

A dry laugh comes from behind the screen. Killian sees a flick of red tongue. “Come out of your hiding then, Father.” The boy sounds drunk, his voice the easy drawl of one confident in their power. “I would look on your face as I  _confess_ , not this dark wood.”

 

He must be drunk, Killian thinks, watching silently from inside the confessional, but he can’t be more than seventeen. Why any underage youth would be drinking so freely in the streets and choose to make sport of harassing a clergyman is beyond him. “Please go.”

 

Another set of fingers slips past the woodwork. Killian can see the shape of him now, a small slender thing bent over the window glaring in. He feels caged; his neck prickles in fear. The shadow leers at him, and the prickles on his neck travel all over as they are wont to do when one feels themselves being scrutinized. 

 

"Would you damn one of your own flock to a life of sin? Would you deny me forgiveness?"

 

"I’m not denying you anything." Killian edges back, away from the window. His back hits the confessional's opposite wall and panic makes his heart leap into his throat. The boy’s form, black and framed to pieces in the window, seems to expand, a dark shadow inching slowly outwards to eclipse what light comes into the booth, draping Killian in the dark of his own making until there is nothing to be seen of him but the whites of his eyes. "Come back when you’re in a better state and I’ll give you all the help you need."

 

He screams when the first hand melts past the window, the pink flush of skin crumbling away to inky hue. Then the rest of him comes, all color fading, a fluid writhing mass similar to that found behind one's eyelids in sleep: he spills past the woodwork and in seconds the shadow is pressed close, eyes burning red coals. Killian fights wildly to push it away but his hands pass through nothing. He reaches for the booth’s door but then the figure shudders, and then the shadow is rippling, black nothing giving way to a very real, very pretty boy settled insolently in his lap and his second scream dies in his throat when the hand, the first one to reach past the window, now just flesh and limb, all traces of dark weightlessness gone, traces at his shaved cheek. 

 

The red of his eyes cools to a blistering green and even as Killian shrinks away from the touch he follows, bending down until his soft curls are brushing across Killian's undone locks. He thumbs open the buttons at Killian's collar and seems to take great satisfaction in the weak thrashes the man beneath him makes in an attempt to get away, his tongue tied by horror.

 

"You needn’t be frightened, Father." The boy murmurs, clasping that frightful hand over Killian’s mouth. "I’ll treat you well."

 


End file.
